


growth

by ObscureReference



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Haircuts, Long Hair, M/M, Mid-Timeskip, Post-Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Relationship, Trauma, Vague Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 03:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/pseuds/ObscureReference
Summary: “So what were you really doing?” Caspar demanded again. “It looked like you were going to cut your hair almost as short as mine!”Linhardt looked at him, unimpressed. He didn’t like having to repeat himself; it wasted energy. “Perhaps notthatshort, but like I said, cutting my hair was the general idea.”Caspar gaped.“Why?”





	growth

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still getting a feel for these two. I think I'll try something a little different next fic, but I'll leave this one as it is. Hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Warning for mentions of death and violence in the first few paragraphs of this fic! It lightens up once Caspar appears and doesn't come up again explicitly, but it's present for a hot second, so be warned. Linhardt is processing a lot of trauma during the war. Not explicitly PTSD, so I didn't tag, but it makes him sick to think about the fighting and he's caught up in his head about it. So be warned about that, mostly in the first part of this fic.
> 
> References are made to Linhardt and Dorothea's Supports.

Linhardt stared at the pink-tinged water with blank eyes. He was looking at the water without truly looking at it, watching the blood that had once stained his face swirl in the bowl without really _seeing_.

Linhardt could distantly feel displaced drops of water running down his neck. He was dimly aware of the wet locks of hair that clung to his forehead too. But that knowledge came from a strange place—a place that felt outside himself.

He didn’t want to think about the war. He didn’t want to think about the death or the violence or the smells that made him hunch over in a corner until his stomach had emptied of all it could hold and more. Not that Linhardt ate much these days anyway. He didn't want to think about those things, but his thoughts wouldn't stop racing, bringing back all of the day's trials and more in horrid detail. 

He’d spoken to Dorothea about it once. Not about war but about burdens. About the weight of one’s actions. He’d told her that she didn’t have to face anything she didn’t want to face, that if the past bothered her so much, she could just let it go. Leave it behind her. Move on. 

It had felt like good advice at the time. Advice Linhardt had taken to heart all his life.

But no matter how desperately he tried to throw himself into his recently spotty sleep schedule, no matter how he clung to his increasingly messy notes or the sound of Caspar’s voice whenever he wasn’t marching off somewhere Linhardt couldn’t follow—

No matter what Linhardt tried, it wasn’t enough.

He was _tired_. Bone tired. The kind of tired that left an aching hollowness inside one’s self; a tired that Linhardt wasn’t sure he’d ever shake off again even if—_when_—the war ended. He felt tired in a way sleep couldn’t cure, no matter how much or how little of that he caught these days.

Linhardt wished he could put it all behind him like he’d told Dorothea to do so long ago. He wished he could brush off the violence the way Caspar could, always searching for the next battle and never seeming to mind the crunch of bone or the cries of the dying once they were knocked out of his way.

How Caspar could live like that, Linhardt would never understand. Not that he begrudged his friend for it, no. Linhardt knew he would never have the stomach for war, and he’d never wish such a thing on someone else either. Especially not when the fighting couldn’t be helped. But he knew he’d never understand.

Linhardt couldn’t put the past behind himself because this wasn’t his past yet; it was his present. None of it would end until one side eventually gave out under the force of the other. 

He knew this, and yet...

Pink streaks of blood swirled in the water. Linhardt tried to get out of his head by focusing on the pink more than his own thoughts, but his stomach lurched dangerously in the process. He’d seen worse, he reminded himself. Broken bones and burned faces and so many different ways to stab a man that Linhardt would have previously considered impossible. And yet a little bit of blood in a washbasin nearly did him in.

Some days he could take it more than others. Today wasn’t one of them.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against his eyelids. If only he could—

He needed—

Linhardt grunted with annoyance when he raked his fingers through his hair and his fingers caught on a nasty tangle. He winced when he managed to pull the knot apart, though he tore out a few strands of hair to do it. 

The fact his hair was a mess after such a long day wasn’t a surprise. It definitely needed a wash and a comb, though he lacked the energy for either at the moment.

He swiped more hair away from his face with a frown. It limply fell back into place as soon as he moved his hand away.

In that moment, taking care of his hair seemed like such a hassle. Just washing his face and hands had exhausted him. What more could Linhardt be expected to do?

Why not just nip the problem in the bud then?

It just made sense when he reached into his desk drawer and found the scissors he'd bought for Caspar’s haircuts waiting for him inside. He pulled them out and set them aside before running his fingers through his messy hair again. He quickly lost that battle and decided it didn’t matter if he was about to be rid of it all in a moment anyway. Combing his hair out would be a lot easier when the knots were gone.

Somehow, Linhardt managed to find the energy to stand. He dragged his feet until he stood before the little mirror someone had affixed to his wall long ago and examined himself. 

Just as he was holding the scissors up to his head and imagining how much he wanted to chop off—quite a lot, he expected—the door opened. He caught sight of Caspar in the mirror behind him, barging in without knocking as per usual, though he was miraculously sans armor for once. He’d clearly already cleaned up after the battle.

“Hey, Linhardt, did you—” Caspar made a choking noise when he saw how Linhardt was posed. “What are you _doing_?”

“What does it look like?” Linhardt meant to say.

_Meant _to say because before he could even get the words out, Caspar had practically leapt from the doorway and yanked the scissors out of Linhardt’s hands.

Linhardt pursed his lips as he turned, hands now empty. “Caspar, what are you—”

“Me? What are _you_—” Caspar waved the scissors in the air carelessly, looking annoyed. “Are you _cutting your hair_?”

“What else would I be using scissors for?” Linhardt asked dryly. He tentatively raised his hand but he didn’t touch Caspar out of caution. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop waving those around, by the way.”

Caspar paused. He looked at his hands like he’d forgotten he was holding the scissors and then thankfully dropped them to his side. Though he did not move to give the scissors back, Linhardt noted.

“Thank you,” he said.

Caspar looked very much like he wanted to flail his arms again, but another quick glance at the scissors in his hand was thankfully enough to keep him mostly still. Mostly. Always in motion, that one.

“So what were you really doing?” Caspar demanded again. “It looked like you were going to cut your hair almost as short as mine!”

Linhardt looked at him, unimpressed. He didn’t like having to repeat himself; it wasted energy. “Perhaps not _that_ short, but like I said, cutting my hair was the general idea.”

Caspar gaped. “_Why_?”

Linhardt raised his eyebrows. What answer did Caspar expect that didn’t boil down to _Because_ _I wanted a haircut, obviously_?

In truth, it was a valid question. Linhardt’s motivations stemmed from more than just the desire for aesthetic change, after all.

He sighed. “I suppose, from a psychological standpoint, I was hoping for a brief feeling of control over my own life, however artificial it may be.”

“What?”

Caspar wrinkled his nose. Linhardt felt a familiar pang of affection slice through the stuffed-cotton feeling in his head. Amazingly, he realized he had quirked a smile at Caspar. Weak and lopsided, but there nonetheless.

“I thought it would make me feel better,” he clarified before Caspar could parse through the turmoil churning in Linhardt’s brain. Which he eventually would. Caspar was bright, in his own way. “Also, it’s a hassle to take care of after battle, so I thought I might save myself from trouble.”

Caspar visibly paused as he took Linhardt in. He was always so easy to read. Linhardt appreciated that about him.

When he finished taking in Linhardt’s frazzled appearance—he definitely should have changed his clothes by now if even Caspar had gotten out of his armor and bathed—Caspar nodded to himself.

“So just put it up like you always do if you don’t want to wash it,” Caspar said, looking around. “Where’s that ribbon you always use? Or another hair tie?”

Linhardt shrugged. “Somewhere. But it doesn’t matter. Now that you’re here, you can help cut my hair instead.”

“No way!” Caspar shot him the same look he might have given Linhardt if he had suggested Caspar kick a puppy. “You can’t ask me to do that!”

Linhardt felt mildly offended at that. “Why not? You’re always making me help you with your hair, after all.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same!” Caspar flexed his fists. Linhardt warily watched his hands to make sure he didn’t accidentally cut himself. “Your hair is different.”

Now that was interesting. Linhardt crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “Oh? How so?”

That seemed to make Caspar realize he’d made a misstep. He sputtered for a moment, clearly unsure of how to explain himself, and then deflated. Linhardt watched him without pity.

“I don’t know,” Caspar eventually grumbled. He averted his eyes. “You’ve just always had long hair, I guess? I just don’t think you should go chopping it off now on a whim.”

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Linhardt said, voice awed. “_Caspar_ telling someone else to think before they act." He paused to let that sink in for a beat before he continued, "Though I never said I was cutting it on a whim.”

Caspar rolled his eyes. “Shut up,” he said with a huff, lacking any real heat. “You _just_ said you wanted to cut your hair to make yourself feel better. But unless the problem is your _hair_, cutting isn’t it going to solve anything.”

Linhardt hummed without answer. Predictably, Caspar took offense.

“Come on,” he said with a scowl. “I’m being serious!”

Linhardt hummed again and dragged his fingers through his hair. The tangles that caught on his fingers did not spark the same burning annoyance as they had a moment ago. Perhaps Caspar had a point.

“So you are,” he acknowledged. “You think it would be in my best interest to keep my hair long then?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Linhardt did not miss the way Caspar’s fingers flexed around the handle of the scissors once more. Caspar’s ears had turned a truly startling shade of pink. “It suits you, I think.”

Interesting. Linhardt filed that away for later.

“What about yourself?” he asked with a gesture. “Your hair has never been more than a few inches long. Why don’t you grow yours out if you’re that invested in the length of mine?”

From the outside perspective, it may have been surprising how often Caspar cut his hair, but Linhardt knew Caspar’s habits too well to accept them for anything other than what they were. Caspar was not strict out of vanity; he claimed it was convenience that caused him to plop down in front of Linhardt every six weeks like clockwork with a razor and a plea.

His recent undercut looked quite fetching, Linhardt was willing to admit.

“Yeah, but that’s because long hair is _annoying_,” Caspar said. “It gets all prickly and itchy around my ears when it gets too long, and I already have sweat in my eyes when I train. I don’t need hair in my face too. It’s just easier to cut it off.”

“So why shouldn’t I cut my hair for the same reasons?”

Caspar made such a face at the question that Linhardt could barely withhold his laughter. Caspar clearly noticed this, which caused him to pout even more. Linhardt took pity on him and covered his grin with his sleeve. How light the mood had gotten now that Caspar had arrived, he thought, grateful for the change.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Caspar said in a tone that very much indicated he did, in fact, want to tell Linhardt what to do. Blessedly, he never had bossed Linhardt around in the years they had known each other, and he didn’t seem ready to start now. “But… you’ve _always_ had long hair.”

“Mostly out of laziness,” Linhardt conceded, lowering his hand. Even at the academy, it had been easier not to cut his hair than to take the time to find a capable barber. Caspar certainly wasn’t one, and Linhardt had only wandered into town for a haircut a handful of times. Since the fall of Garreg Mach, he’d found even less time for it. After two years of minimal haircuts, his former bob had evened itself out and now sat just a little past his shoulders.

“Yeah, but…” The pink in Caspar’s ears had begun to spread to his cheeks. “I mean—Whatever. Do what you want. I’m just saying, it doesn’t look bad on you.”

Linhardt made a considering sound. “Why, Caspar, are you telling me you like me better with long hair?”

“I didn’t say that.” The pink of his cheeks offset the force of Caspar’s glare. “Cut your hair if you really want, but don’t…” He scuffed his boot on the stone floor. “If you’re having a problem, just talk to me about it instead of doing something unhelpful. You’ve had long hair for as long as I’ve known you, so part of you must like it too, right? Otherwise you would have cut it way sooner.”

Whether with his fists or his words, Caspar always managed to cut right to the heart of things. Linhardt considered his advice.

He wasn’t in the mood to talk about his problems at the moment. Not when the heaviness in his chest had somewhat subsided. But Caspar did have a point.

Reaching up, he curled a bit of hair around the end of his finger. It still needed to be washed.

He dropped his hands.

“Alright,” Linhardt said. “And if that’s the case, then I’ll be taking those back.”

He held out his hand for the scissors.

Reluctantly, Caspar handed them over. He visibly perked up when Linhardt opened a nearby drawer and tossed them inside.

As he closed the drawer, he caught sight of the bowl still sitting on top of his desk. He’d nearly forgotten about it.

Linhardt dragged his eyes away from the dirty water, picked up the bowl with a sigh, and held it out to Caspar, who took it with a questioning look.

“If I change my clothes,” he said, “would you mind dumping this out somewhere and getting more water? I’d clean up faster if you helped me wash my hair."

Caspar shrugged, easygoing. “Sure. And then we can get dinner, right? It’s getting late, and I’m starving.”

Of course he was. After the way he’d fought today—Linhardt didn’t want to remember the details just yet. But Caspar had to be hungry.

It was a little selfish of him to ask Caspar for help when Caspar had probably come to invite him to dinner in the first place. Linhardt’s stomach wasn’t churning the way it had earlier, but he didn’t feel particularly hungry either.

He forcefully turned away from those thoughts and focused on Caspar’s face instead.

“Of course,” Linhardt said. “I appreciate the help.”

Caspar smiled with his teeth. “What are friends for?”

* * *

Linhardt let out a gentle sigh of pleasure as Caspar carded his fingers through his hair. The soft grass below his head made a decent pillow already, but combined with the warm sun above and the soothing, rhythmic way Caspar had been playing with his hair for the last half hour, it was a wonder Linhardt hadn’t fallen asleep yet. He certainly had a predisposition for it. Perhaps the anomaly was worth some study.

He let out another happy sound as Caspar's fingers briefly ghosted over his ear before tracing the curve of Linhardt's jaw.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Caspar said softly. Considerately, if Linhardt really had been asleep.

Linhardt hummed before deciding he had enough energy to answer. “How do you know I’m not?”

Caspar laughed. “For one thing, you sleep like the dead, so you wouldn’t be talking.” He felt Caspar wriggle closer, his breath ghosting Linhardt’s cheek. “Also, you’ve got that look on your face that says you’re thinking about something.”

Perceptive. Linhardt tilted his head towards Caspar’s voice and cracked open an eye. “Mm, you’re not wrong. If you must know, I was thinking about that time you begged me not to cut my hair.”

With one arm tucked under his head and the other laid across Linhardt’s chest, Caspar scoffed. So he remembered too. “I didn’t _beg_ you.”

“You did,” Linhardt said. He closed his eye again but didn’t bother keeping the grin off his face. “I thought you were going to cry when you saw me holding those scissors.”

“I’ve never cried once in my life.” A blatant lie. Linhardt smiled, and he could hear from Caspar’s voice that he was smiling too. “And even if I did, it’s a good thing you listened to me. Now I get to touch your hair all I want.”

“You make it sound like that somehow benefits me too,” Linhardt teased.

“It does!” Caspar insisted. Not angrily; just excited the way he tended to get, voice rising without warning. Linhardt’s grin widened at the sound.

“How so?” he asked, knowing Caspar would follow through.

“Because now I can do stuff like this.”

Caspar gently brushed a lock of hair away from Linhardt’s forehead with the back of his hand and carding his fingers through his hair again. It was a pleasant feeling, but not nearly as good as when Caspar really dug his fingers in and scratched Linhardt’s scalp.

Linhardt groaned under his breath at that. Caspar’s hands in his hair always felt good. Unlike Linhardt, he was never still.

The longer Linhardt’s hair had grown over the years, the less Caspar seemed to be able to resist touching it at all times. Which suited Linhardt just fine. He wouldn’t have minded the constant touching even if he and Caspar hadn’t been together for some time now. The fact he and Caspar _were_ together definitely made Caspar’s inability to keep his hands to himself all the better though. That was simply fact. Linhardt had done enough research on the subject to know.

Caspar dragged his fingers across a particularly sensitive part of Linhardt’s neck. Goosebumps broke out across his skin when he gasped.

Collecting more evidence never hurt, he thought.

“You really do have a preference for long hair,” Linhardt mumbled after a few seconds. He’d all but lost his train of thought under the magic of Caspar’s fingers.

“Not for everybody,” Caspar said. “Just for you.”

It was something he’d mentioned before, but Linhardt never minded being told twice. Or twenty times, in this case.

“Is that so?”

“You look good with long hair.” Caspar’s voice dropped. “Really.”

Linhardt stretched, arching into Caspar’s touch. He cracked his eyes open halfway, giving his partner a look.

“Caspar,” he said teasingly, playing up the sultry tone in his voice. “We’re in _public_, you know.”

Only technically. There was no one around. Not for miles, maybe. If Linhardt and Caspar decided to take a tumble in the middle of the grassy field, they probably could have gotten away with it, but the mere suggestion made Caspar pinch Linhardt’s ear with embarrassment.

Linhardt winced and opened his eyes all the way, drowsiness lost. “Ouch.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Caspar defended. His cheeks were pink, but it was still the red of his ears that stood out the most. As it always did.

He rolled his eyes affectionately. “I know. I’m joking.”

Linhardt rubbed at his ear—more for show than real pain. Caspar settled back down, both literally and figuratively, and began massaging Linhardt’s scalp again. He even kissed Linhardt’s shoulder in apology. Linhardt accepted it and rewarded Caspar with his own kiss on the wrist when his hand wandered too close.

“But seriously,” Caspar continued. “You do look good with long hair.”

“As you’ve said.” Linhardt hadn’t gotten a substantial haircut in years for that very reason. He doubted that would change anytime soon. “You look quite dashing yourself, you know.”

Caspar beamed with bashful pride. The first time Linhardt had seen him with that undercut—having gone to a _real_ barber for once, years ago—Linhardt had nearly swallowed his tongue. Caspar had clearly misinterpreted why Linhardt had choked at the time. But now, after a more than a few offhand comments and Linhardt’s own wandering hands, it was clear why Caspar hadn’t changed his style in the past few years either. 

After another few quiet moments of enjoying the stillness between them, Caspar spoke up again.

“Where should we go next?”

The war had long since ended, and they were in the middle of nowhere. They had plenty of options.

“Anywhere is fine,” Linhardt said, “so long as we’re together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Caspar loves Linhardt's long hair, and you can't change my mind. I want to write more hair-related fic for these two again soon.
> 
> In case I didn't make it clear enough, the first half of this fic takes place about 2 years into the timeskip when Linhardt and Caspar are not in a romantic relationship, and the second half takes place post-war in their (established relationship) paired ending. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment below or hit me up on my [tumblr!](http://someobscurereference.tumblr.com/) I get a lot of FE meta and fic related asks there, so feel free to browse through my "asks" or "fe14" or "fe16" tags for some extra stuff from me and your fellow readers that you may not see over here. Or send in a question of your own if you had one! Thanks for reading!


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